


Always Consult the Almanac

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Mischief, Romance, Snark, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-18 03:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16987404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: When Arthur married Merlin, he took on a lot more than just a cute, ticklish warlock with pointy elbows and an obsession with obscure radio comedians. But, to Arthur, the litany of breakages, burned foodstuffs, bizarre recipes, esoteric pets, and ruined kitchen equipment was a small price to pay for a Merlin-ful life. For a life without Merlin in it… well, it would be unthinkable. And so, given the unthinkableness of merlinlessness, Arthur had learned to not just tolerate, but appreciate all the extra people, beings, creatures and… things… that came with a life of merlinfulness. The full package, as it were.His father, on the other hand...In which Merlin and Arthur attempt to stage the perfect Christmas. Shenanigans ensue.





	Always Consult the Almanac

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indyonblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indyonblue/gifts).



> Dear Indyonblue - you left so many wonderful prompts, I struggled to decide between them but! In the end, I decided to plump for Arthur and Merlin's Christmas DisastersTM.
> 
> With huge thanks to my ever patient Beta reader, A, who deserves all the praise and has been promised to be showered in rose petals <3 Especial thanks to the mods of this wonderful fest, which brings so much joy to us all during the festive period. *YOU ROCK, MODS!*
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are mine, all mine!

****

Arthur

****

Far away from the bustle of the city, nestled into a fold in the landscape, sat a thatched-roof cottage (if you can call a rambling sort of edifice with several wings a cottage). Above it teetered four or (maybe) five irregular slate-roofed turrets. A precarious-looking glass lean-to, which might with the eye of faith or optimism be described as a conservatory, was tacked onto one side. A line of gnarly oaks screened it from passing traffic. Should there be any.

There never was.

Whatever this cottage might have once been, new bits had been bolted onto the original building over time. It now resembled something a child might assemble from a multitude of different toy sets, none of which matched in style or aesthetic, but nevertheless when brought together formed a harmonious if startling picture. It was the sort of place that might attract a fan of Victorian melodrama, say, or perhaps a gothic horror enthusiast.

On this grey and sunless afternoon, the passing traveller, if there were such a thing (there never was), might have observed smoke curling from a chimney, and a welcoming glow radiating from one steamed-up window. Starlings lined the rooftop. An array of multi-coloured fairy lights illuminated the porch, their sparkling and flashing making up in enthusiasm for what they lacked in taste. Several of the four (or were there five?) chimneys sported equally garish illuminations, from grinning Santas to reindeer with twinkling antlers. Inside, an enthusiastic but off-key tenor voice sang (some of the words to) “Santa Baby”, the sound floating through a window that was not so much ajar as permanently propped open with a stick.

The whole thing looked as if it might fall down at any moment.

Into this idyll rolled an incongruously sharp-looking red sports car. The door opened. Out stepped a blond businessman, firm-jawed, tie slung a little low, top button loosened. After extracting an expensive-looking briefcase and matching suitcase-on-wheels from the boot, he slammed it shut and set off across the gravel towards the house, yawning as he walked, feet and suitcase wheels scrunching.

“Merlin!” he yelled as he approached. He smiled at a hand-made festive wreath that adorned the front door. With a tuneless whistle, he fumbled in his pocket for his key. “Merlin, I’m home!”

Abruptly, the singing stopped. “Arthur? Hey everyone! Daddy’s home!”

There was a sudden cacophony of barking, screeching, and yowling, not to mention the thunder of feet and clawed paws on wood. A moment later, before Arthur had time to insert his key, the door opened, and a startled face peered out, framed by a fan of messy ink-black hair.

“Arthur!” This vision stepped forward, arms outstretched. “Oh, God! It’s so good to see you!”

“I’ve only been away for a week, _Mer_ lin!”

Arthur couldn’t help smiling back as he stepped inside to return Merlin's hug, and buried his nose into his favourite fold of Merlin’s neck. He breathed deeply. Merlin’s T-shirt smelt of cinnamon. He was probably in the middle of baking something complicated. It would be a disaster, but Arthur didn’t mind. As they embraced, several panting, enthusiastic bodies flowed out of different doorways and circled around their legs and heads. Soon, the two of them found themselves in the centre of a writhing and ecstatic bundle of wagging, licking, flitting, meowing and snuggling creatures.

“Aaargh!” A heavy shape settled on his shoulder and began nuzzling at his ear. “Ow! Careful, Aithusa! You’re a bit heavy for that! Aww, snookums, how’s my precious angel, then?” He tickled the spot behind her dragonish jaws that made her close her eyes and extend her neck in bliss.

“Woof!” Percy let out a deep, throaty bark that made the floor shake, and reared up, placing his huge forepaws in the middle of Arthur’s chest so that he was hard pressed not to overbalance.

“Oof! Down, Percival!” Stepping away from the still-grinning Merlin, with Aithusa still wrapped possessively around his neck, he reached up to pet the enormous hell-hound’s head. “Hush! You’ll wake Mordred! Now, where’s my little Sweet Pea? Freya?”

“Papa!” A loud squeal accompanied this exclamation and a small, gap-toothed girl skidded across the hallway on socked feet. “I went swimming! I gotta stifficut! Jake was sick on Miss Nemeth’s skirt! I gotta present for Mordred! It's a secret! Lauren’s got a rabbit! Can I have one, Papa? Oh, please?”

“Stifficut?” Arthur mouthed to Merlin as he extracted his arm from the snuggle pile. He extended it towards Freya, who was still fluttering her lashes. “Give me a hug, Freya darling.”

“Certificate,” Merlin whispered back.

Her skinny arms only just reached around his waist. She looked pale. He made a mental note to ask Merlin later if she had been taking her iron tablets, and in the next thought remembered that the full moon was only a day or two away.

Which is when it hit him.

Oh dear.

He wondered if Merlin had yet realised that the full moon coincided with Christmas. The perfect, family Christmas that Merlin had craved for years.

“Ah. Merlin,” he murmured in his husband’s ear. “Have you thought about our Christmas plans yet?”

“Oh yes! Totally!” Merlin replied, stepping out of their hug and giving him one of those bright, almost deranged smiles that could rob Arthur of all thought. “I’ve got all the rooms ready! I can’t wait! I fed the cake again today. It’s going to be sheer dynamite!”

 _Sheer dynamite,_ eh? That was the catchphrase of a character in Merlin’s favourite radio comedy. If Arthur were to take an educated guess, he would surmise that Merlin had not consulted the almanac at all, and instead had spent the week of Arthur’s absence in state of bliss, listening to his bootlegged box set of _The Sky’s The Limit_ and fantasising about his perfect Christmas, rather than doing any systematic planning. Well, it was a jolly good thing that Arthur was back from his inconveniently timed business trip. Someone needed to sort things out.

“Sheer dynamite, in a cake?” Arthur said now, trying to stop his lips twitching. “Mmm. High explosives. Delicious. My favourite.”

“Don’t be such a sarky old grouch. Tea?”

“Oh, God, yes please. Anyway.” Slinging one arm around Merlin, he steered him towards the kitchen while their household gradually started to disperse. “Have you really _thought_ about everything? I mean, in a _consult the almanac and then make plans around that_ , sort of way?”

He paused to fling his suitcase towards the cupboard under the hall stairs. With an enthusiastic chirrup, Aithusa launched herself from his shoulder, catching the suitcase mid-air and flapped off towards the cupboard. It was her favourite chore.

“Well, of course I have,” said Merlin, flashing Arthur an indignant glare. “It’s all planned! The Christmas cheesecake is defrosting in the cellar…”

“I hope you have locked the door.” Yawning, Arthur followed Merlin into the kitchen. His driving glasses instantly fogged. By the time he had finished wiping them on his shirt, Merlin had filled the kettle and switched it on.

For a cottage, the kitchen was a surprisingly roomy space, painted white with blue and white tiles, high ceilings, from which dangled an array of herbs, and a scuffed wooden floor. On a section of wall, covered in scribblings and crossings out, hung a monthly almanac. With a sinking feeling, Arthur noted that it was still set to November.

“Of course, I have!” Oblivious to Arthur’s discomfort, Merlin stood with his back to the kettle, arms crossed. “I’m not stupid! And anyway, Percy hasn’t nicked any food out of there for ages.”

There was a whine from the dog basket by the kitchen range.

“And where is everyone going to stay?”

“Well, Mum will go in her old room. Earl Grey or Builders?”

“Builders, please.” Arthur pulled a face. “Not in the mood for Girl Grey.”

“Fine tea is not gendered, prat.” Merlin grabbed a pair of mugs and a teapot from the cupboard and popped two teabags in the pot before bending to extract a tub of milk from the fridge. “Anyway. Your Dad can have my old room. Gwen and Lance will be in the snug. There’s an _en suite_ bathroom, and an open fire in there. And Gwaine adores Percival, so he can go in the attic. They bonded over that whole whisky thing, remember?”

“I wish I bloody didn’t.” Arthur shuddered. "Hell-hounds do not combine well with whisky."

“And we’ll stay in the Summer wing.” Merlin shrugged as he undid the milk top and turned to pour a small amount in each mug. “Should be fine.”

“Hmmm.” Arthur was not sure whether he felt entirely comfortable sleeping in another part of the house rather than keeping an eye on their guests. Not at full moon. “And Leon and Morgana?”

“I thought I would put them in the green room—”

“But Mordred—”

“I know what you’re going to say!” The kettle clicked off, and Merlin poured boiling water into the open pot, stirring it before putting on the lid and tea cosy, talking all the while. “But he’s really been working hard on his impulse control. I’m so proud of him. He really doesn’t have any problems, except at full moon of course. And it’s totally under control… but just in case. I can put up some protective charms. And…”

He glanced out of the kitchen window, coming to an abrupt halt, mouth dropping open. “What did you just say?”

“About the green room? You know it’s where Mordred likes to—”

“No, not that, clotpole! I meant, about the almanac?”

Outside, high above the trees, pale scraps of cloud were flitting away. Bathed by the golden sunset glow, the nearly full moon was rising, its face serene as it peeped above the horizon. It was quite the largest moon Arthur had seen for some time.

Not that any of this came as a surprise. Because, being without an almanac, Arthur had instead consulted the internet earlier, and double-checked the meaning of the word _perigee_ , just to be on the safe side.

“Oh, fuck!” Merlin grabbed the almanac off the wall, turning the page over to December, and groaned. “Bollocks. I forgot.”

“Ah, so now the penny drops.” Smiling, Arthur pulled the cosy off the teapot, stirred the tea again, and poured it. Tempting brown liquid gurgled and steamed at him. He grasped his mug, cupping both hands around the warm porcelain with a contented hum.

“What does _fuck_ mean, Papa?” asked an upside-down Freya, who was practising handstands up against the wall.

“Daddy will explain. Won’t you, Merlin?”

Instead of defending himself, Merlin just stared at him, with a slack-mouthed sort of aghast expression on his face.

“What’s wrong, Papa?” said Freya, breaking her handstand and skipping over to clutch at Arthur's suit jacket. She worried at her bottom lip. “Can I have a rabbit for Christmas? Lauren’s got a rabbit. Can I have a rabbit, Papa? I drew a picture of my perfect rabbit. Please, Papa? Please?”

“Ask Daddy.” Arthur blew the steam off the top of his tea. "Careful, don't wobble me. I'll spill me tea." 

“He said to ask you.” She pouted but released her hold on his jacket.

Of course, he did. Arthur swung his head round to direct his most accusing glare at Merlin.

“I’ll just pour the tea, shall I?” said Merlin, heading for the teapot as if it were a lifeline, probably to avoid being on the receiving end of Arthur’s murderous glower.

“Too late,” Arthur growled. "I've already done it."

“I’d look after it really well,” Freya was saying. “Please, Papa! I’d clean its cage and everything.”

 “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Sweet Pea.” Arthur put his tea down, so that he wouldn’t spill it on her, and knelt next to her, so that they could see eye to eye. “Look. Tiny wouldn’t like it.”

“Tiny is a poopoo.” She bared her teeth at him.

She had not yet got her adult teeth. One of her incisors had fallen out and would grow back even longer than the other. Otherwise, her more esoteric qualities did not really show during the daytime. It was such a shame that Christmas would fall at full moon.

“Freya, how many times have I told you not to use the word poopoo to describe people?”

“Tiny is not people.”

“But Tiny is your pet, and you love her, even if she has got one leg missing.”

“Lauren has two pets.” Her little lip quivered, and her eyes began to fill. “Please Papa?”

Arthur Pendragon, Queen’s Counsel, scourge of the High Court, Britain’s top criminal barrister, had faced Britain’s most hardened criminals without flinching, but against such weapons he was powerless.

He sighed. He was too tired to argue.

“We’ll see, Sweet Pea,” he said lamely, cursing himself as a coward. “Now. Where’s this picture you drew?”

"Brilliant!"

As she scampered off into the hallway to find her book bag, Arthur exchanged a wordless glance with Merlin, who shrugged and proffered a conciliatory biscuit tin.

“Good trip?” Merlin said with a broad smile. “Home made cinnamon cookie?”

A powerful smell of burnt cinnamon rose from the tin, and the cookie he took was a bit on the hard side. Merlin’s hair was a tousled thatch, messy from the anxious clutching that always accompanied Merlin’s attempts to bake. Rumpled but perfect. The sight made something ache deep in Arthur’s chest.

“Yeah.” Arthur huffed a rueful laugh and dunked the cookie into his tea to soften it. “But it’s even better to be home.” He took a bite. It wasn’t too bad. Swallowing, he put his tea down to cross the kitchen and gave into the temptation to bury his fingers in Merlin’s dishevelled hair while they kissed.

“Ugh!” came a voice from the doorway. “That’s disgusting. Stop kissing Daddy and come and draw rabbits with me.”

Foreheads still touching, Merlin and Arthur exchanged grins.

“Imperious little wotsit, isn’t she?” said Merlin.

“Papa!”

“We’re going to have to talk to you about ordering people around, Sweet Pea,” said Arthur in his sternest voice, the one that had hardened criminals quaking in their boots.

Sadly, Freya was immune to it. She stuck out her tongue and putting her art work down on the kitchen table, started to draw. Conceding defeat, Arthur pulled away from his husband and drew out a chair next to her, picking up his tea with one hand and a crayon with the other.

****

Merlin

****

Merlin pouted at his own reflection. Why did the Oak Moon have to come on Christmas Day? Why? Why him? The bloody gods were conspiring against him. It was not fair. All he wanted was a perfect family Christmas. Just one! Was that too much to ask?

Above all, he was cross at himself. Normally so in tune with the lunar cycles, he had let his excitement at the upcoming yule festivities distract him. He must have known at some point, because “collect mistletoe” had been scribbled in his diary next to 30th December, and he always collected mistletoe on the sixth day of the Oak Moon. So, why on earth had he not made the connection?

“Stop sulking and come to bed!” Arthur patted the duvet. “Everything will be fine.”

“Sulking? I’m not sulking! I never sulk. I am a sulk-free zone.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Of course, you are sulking. Luckily for you, you look damn sexy when you sulk.”

“You can lie there naked as much as you like, waggling those come-hither eyebrows at me,” said Merlin, waving his toothbrush in Arthur’s general direction.  “But you being a pouty clotpole won’t make me clean my teeth any quicker.”

“I’m feeling neglected,” said Arthur, leaning back on his elbows, and tilted his head back, showing a long length of neck, and pressing his lips together. He was probably trying to look sultry, but merely succeeded in looking constipated. “It’s the night before Christmas Eve. Does that make it Christmas Eve _Eve_? Anyway, I want my husband in my bed, slobbering on me and not on the bedroom tap.”

“Now who’s sulking.” Merlin chuckled and bent to fill his mouth with water from the tap so that he could rinse out the toothpaste.

“Pendragons never sulk,” said Arthur sulkily.

“Yeah, and the sun never rises,” Merlin replied through a slurp of water.

“In this country at this time of year, that’s not far off the truth.” Arthur threw a pillow which hit Merlin’s bum. “Now, our house will start filling up with guests tomorrow morning. So, this is our last chance for a while. Come to… Hey! Are you drinking water from the tap?”

“Nope?” Straightening, Merlin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and did his best to look innocent.

“You are!” Arthur threw himself ostentatiously back onto his own pillow. “Ugh, I’m not kissing you, now, slob! No wonder Freya has such bad habits!”

“You’re a fine one to talk, mister!” With an indignant shake of his head, Merlin leapt onto the bed and pinned Arthur’s hands above his head before straddling Arthur’s hips and moving in for a mint-flavoured kiss. “There. You’re contaminated now.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you!” But Arthur made no move to escape from his grip, instead kissing back enthusiastically.

“I do.” grinned Merlin between kisses and did his best to show his husband exactly why.

Later, as their pulses were slowing, and their eyelids had started to droop, he lay boneless and idle with his head resting on the wide muscles of Arthur’s upper arm, curling strands of Arthur’s chest-hair between his fingers. This was bliss. If he only ever had this moment, he would never need anything else in his life. Just him and Arthur, floppy limbs entangled, while their family slept, and the gentle hiss of the rain outside mingled with far-off owl hoots. As Arthur dropped off into slumber, the warm rumble of Arthur’s snores made Merlin’s palm vibrate while the reassuring thrum of Arthur’s pulse tapped out a steady rhythm against his fingertips. Now he could study Arthur’s jaw in peace, eyes tracing the line from the tiny scar where Arthur nicked himself shaving, up to the dip between ear and cheek, taking in the noble profile of Arthur’s nose, silhouetted against the dim moonlight that trickled in through the curtain. So perfect and chiselled were Arthur’s features on nights like this, he could be a medieval king, resting on the night before battle. Of such things were poems written, songs composed, sonnets declaimed.

But of course, moments like these were ephemeral, which was precisely why they were so precious. As he lay wondering whether to extract his leg—which was beginning to go numb—from the cradle of Arthur’s knee, he became aware of an insistent scratching sound from the direction of the door.

Arthur’s snores stopped. “What’s that noise?” he said.

Bugger. Merlin bit his lip. “Um. Nothing?”

“You’re not fooling anyone, Merlin,” groaned Arthur. “It’s Aithusa, isn’t it? She’s finding things for her bloody hoard again.”

“Mmm.” There wasn’t a lot else that Merlin could say to that, so he grimaced instead, placing an apologetic kiss on Arthur’s bare side. “Think so.”

Arthur let out a sigh that gusted into Merlin’s hair. “What’s she been hoarding this time?” he murmured.

Oh, god. Merlin had hoped that he’d be able to keep this one quiet. Arthur was not going to be happy. He felt that Merlin indulged Aithusa too much as it was. Which was horribly hypocritical, considering how much Arthur doted on her.

“Come on.” There was a sharp, elbow-sized dig in Merlin’s side. “Out with it.”

“Um.”

“Now, Merlin.”

“Christmas puddings,” whispered Merlin.

“Christmas puddings?” yelled Arthur, so loudly it made Merlin jump.

“Shhh! You’ll wake Mordred!”

“Bloody hell!” But thankfully, Arthur’s complaints subsided to a low grumble. “Christmas bloody puddings. Jesus. Why couldn’t she hoard coins, like a normal dragon? Hmmm? But no, not our Aithusa. Coins aren’t good enough for her… She has to hoard things that are useful, like keys and pens and tv remote controls and Christmas blooming puddings… how many of them has she got? Where is she hoarding them? _Why_ is she hoarding them? Oh, God, tell me she’s keeping them sealed so they don’t go off!”

“Um, I don’t know…”

“Oh, God. They’ll attract all sorts! We’ll never get rid of them… idiot dragon.”

“She can’t help her instincts, clotpole!” said Merlin. Poor little Aithusa could not be blamed for her natural urges. “She thinks it’s a game! And she needs attention! At least this way she knows she’s going to get it...”

Plus, there was the little fact that dragons tend to hoard things when they’re sitting on a clutch of eggs. Perhaps this wasn’t the time to mention that, though. Arthur seemed tense enough about the whole Christmas pudding situation without having baby dragons to worry about as well.

The scratching was getting more insistent. Merlin was beginning to regret hiding his most recently purchased vegetarian Marks and Spencer Christmas pud under their bed. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but Aithusa’s instincts were fabulous, and she was getting bloody good at dematerialising.

Secretly, of course, he couldn’t help feeling a bit proud when she burst out from under the door with a triumphant squawk. But he couldn’t let Arthur see that, so instead he leapt out of bed, scolding her and trying to chase her down with a blanket while Arthur lay on the bed crying with laughter. The git.

“Don’t just lie there, cackling like a fishwife, clotpole!” Merlin panted, as she flitted through his arms _again_ and executed a perfect loop the loop to evade his clutches. “Do someth— whoa!” Arms windmilling, Merlin threw the blanket at Aithusa’s head in a last-ditch attempt to catch the little menace, just as she slid out from between his clutching fingers and swooped through his legs, making him overbalance and land heavily on his bare arse. “Ow!”

Aithusa let out a triumphant, melodious noise, and scrambled under the bed, where no amount of Arthur grasping and clutching with an outstretched hand would catch her. She emerged with a still-wrapped Christmas pudding tightly wedged in her jaws, let out a delighted trill, launched herself into the air and abruptly winked out, leaving only a dragon-shaped space behind.

“Bloody hell,” said Arthur, gaping. “When did she learn how to dematerialise?”

“It’s a recent thing,” Merlin replied. “While you were away.” The room seemed suddenly quiet. “I suppose I’ll have to go shopping again.” His shoulders drooped. He really didn’t fancy braving the ravening public at their local supermarket the day before Christmas. “Either that or we’ll have no pud, and you know what Gwaine’s like with Christmas pud… with his puppy eyes and his _Christmas isn’t Christmas without figgy pudding, Merlin…_ ” he trailed off, and narrowed his eyes at his partner. Because Arthur's lips were starting to twitch up into a self-congratulatory smile.

Merlin pointed a trembling finger at him. “You knew!”

Arthur nodded, and let out a chuckle. “Your face, Merlin!” he said, shoulders heaving.

“Why didn’t you say?”

“Because you indulge that evil little dragon too much…”

“Oh, you’re a fine one to talk. _How’s my precious little angel, hmm?_ ” said Merlin in what he liked to think was a creditable imitation of Arthur’s voice. “ _How’s my little snookums, did she miss her daddy, did she?_ ”

“Shut up, Merlin,” murmured Arthur, beckoning and giving the bed beside him a vigorous pat. “There’s another Christmas Pud. And it’s somewhere where she’ll never find it.”

“There is? Where?”

“I could tell you that, but then I’d have to shoot you,” said Arthur, lying back with an unfairly smug expression all over his unfairly handsome face.

Merlin wasn’t sure what he wanted to do more; to kiss it, or to wipe that smug expression off with a judicious tickling manoeuvre. “But what if she—” he bit his lip. “I just want Christmas to be perfect, this year, you know? I want everyone to get along and have fun together, like a proper family. You know?”

“Everything will be fine, Merlin,” said Arthur. “Aithusa will be not steal the remaining pud. Freya will keep her more cat-like impulses to a minimum. Mordred will behave himself. Your mother will not fuss, my father will not criticize, Leon and Morgana will not smirk, Percy won’t break anything, Gwaine will not steal your father’s single malt whisky, and Gwen and Lancelot will exchange moony-eyed glances that will put everyone off their dinner. Now come here.”

"You're just saying that to make me come to bed."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't." 

Merlin snorted. “And what about you, Arthur? You won’t argue with your Father on Christmas Day?”

“Of course, I won’t.”

“Promise?”

Arthur bit his lip. “I promise I will _try_. Now, settle down.”

Well, Merlin supposed that it was pointless asking for a miracle. So, he settled into his preferred snuggling spot (between Arthur’s arm and his chest) and tried not to worry too much.

****

Arthur

****

“Remind me again why we’re making mince pies instead of using the perfectly delicious shop-bought ones from Marks and Spencer that I brought home yesterday?” Arthur dug his teaspoon into the jar of gloop and attempted to empty the heaped contents into an uncooked pastry case, ending up with gooey blobs smeared largely on his fingers and the baking tin, while a small amount of it dropped into the correct part of the case.

Worse, Merlin had forced him to wear a ridiculous Wonder Woman apron, to protect his new Christmas jumper. The jumper sported a protruding knitted Christmas pud on the front, so that his apron bulged over it like a beer belly. 

 “Baking makes the house smell welcoming.” Merlin dropped another Brussels sprout into the pot by his side. “We want to make a good impression.”

Ever since Merlin had burst into Arthur’s life in a flurry of flailing limbs and endearing clumsiness, it had been his singular ambition to make a good impression on Arthur’s father, who apparently closely resembled (in voice, at least) Humphrey Cartwright, a character from Merlin’s favourite radio comedy drama, _The Sky’s The Limit_. So close was the resemblance that Merlin, upon first meeting Uther five years ago, had adopted a comical star-struck fish-faced expression that Arthur had teased him about for months afterwards. It was at this early point in their relationship that Merlin started trying and failing to make his father-in-law approve of him. Arthur could have told him years ago that even Jesus would have had a hard time getting any kind of praise from Uther. And yet, still Merlin persevered.

“Makes the house smell _welcoming_?” To disguise a sudden burst of fondness, Arthur rolled his eyes and licked the blob off his finger. It tasted sweet and spicy. 

“Yes, welcoming. What’s so weird about that?” said Merlin. “You know, like in that program on telly about selling houses. They say that baking makes the house smell, you know. Enticing.”

“Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.” When Arthur absently wiped mincemeat on his apron, his fingers stuck to the fabric. Great. Now Diana Prince had a raisin stuck to her left boob. “We’re not trying to _sell_ it you know. You’ve been watching too much daytime TV. Next time I go away on business, I’m disconnecting the telly.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Would.”

“Wouldn’t. Anyway, you could just put the ready-made mince pies in the oven and then we wouldn’t have to do this...”

Grimacing, he waggled his still-sticky fingers before going to rinse them under the tap, patting them dry on the clean towel he had slung over his shoulder, and going back to the claggy teaspoon.

“That’s where you’re wrong, clotpole,” protested Merlin, knife hovering over a reluctant sprout. “We have to make our own. Because obviously most mincemeat contains suet, whereas this mincemeat is vegetar— Careful! If you get the mincemeat on the tin, it burns and makes it stick. And I’ve only got one jar! Don’t put so much in, it will be fine...”

“I’ll make _you_ stick,” grumbled Arthur. “And everyone knows that there’s nothing worse than an underfilled mince pie.”

“Well, if you overfill it, it’ll burst out of the case.”

“If you’re so bloody good at this, why don’t you do it?” Waving the teaspoon around wildly, Arthur just about managed to remove a sticky raisin from it, which fell on the floor. “Arrgh!”

Percival and Aithusa pounced on the fallen morsel, swatting each other in their haste to lick away the scrap. As usual in these encounters, Percival came off worse and slunk over to the corner, wheezing, whining, and nursing his nose with an indignant forepaw.

“I’ve got to prep the sprouts.” Merlin’s tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as it always did when he concentrated.

This could have been a calculated move to make distract Arthur from his self-righteous rant. Merlin’s lips were so plush, and the tongue added a dark-pink counterpoint that gave Arthur’s tummy funny flippy-floppy feelings. For a moment he was lost for words and had to look away to recover his equilibrium.

“I don’t know why you are bothering,” Arthur said. He frowned down at his final pie. “No-one likes them. Little green balls of snot. Merlin, I don’t think these have enough mincemeat in.”

Merlin put his knife down and gazed, hands on hips, at the soggy, floury mess on Arthur’s work surface. Then, inhaling deeply, he spread a hand across the top of the pan containing the unfinished pies, and muttered something in Old English. His eyes flashed gold. The deflated-looking pies plumped up.

“Did you just put a spell on my pies?”

“Just a small one?” Merlin fluttered his eyebrows and flashed Arthur a half smile.

It was the sort of winsome half smile that might make some people lose their heads. But Arthur was not one to be swayed by twinkling blue eyes nor saucy pink lips. No, sir. He harrumphed for a moment or two, just to make sure.

“Well, I won’t have it,” he said, scrunching his face up to tamp down the ugly, sentimental feelings that threatened to stop him from berating Merlin as he deserved. “They’re my pies, and I don’t want them sullied by your evil tricks.”

“Aww, don’t be grumpy.” Merlin ducked inside Arthur’s personal space to deliver the sort of kiss that you don’t see bakers having to fend off on those TV cookery shows. Honestly, it was a miracle that Arthur got anything done around here, sometimes.

Some time later, they readjusted their clothing, and after washing his hands Arthur set to work putting the pie cases on. The oven now being hot, he shoved the pies inside, and went over to see how Merlin was getting on with the sprouts, which led to another distracting kiss. Or ten. Because, they may as well take advantage of the fact that Freya was glued to the Christmas TV in another room.

But at that point the doorbell rang.

“Dad! Papa!” screeched a small, high-pitched voice from another room. “Nana Hunith has arrived!”

“Woof!”

Once more, chaos reigned over the household.

Merlin was the last person to get a hug from his mother, who took the opportunity to scold and fuss at his clothing and to nag him to get his hair cut. Arthur stood back and watched, arms crossed, trying and failing to suppress a fond smile.

“...since the _summer_ , Merlin! And you know it just get curly and starts to fall down around your ears. I don’t know how Arthur puts up with it.”

In actual fact, Arthur, although he would never tell Hunith this of course, liked to slide his fingers into said curls and trace the outline of Merlin’s skull with his palms and fingertips while Merlin’s mouth was occupied elsewhere. But such things were not to be discussed with one’s mother-in-law, so he carried on smirking at Merlin instead.

“Yes, mum. Sorry, mum.”

“And you’re not eating enough. Look at you, I can almost see right through you.”

Arthur couldn’t help letting out a little snort at that. The amount of food that Merlin put away each day was a constant source of astonishment.

“Yes, mum.” Merlin frowned at him over his mother’s shoulder. “Listen to her, Porky Pendragon. You need to stop eating all the pies and leave some for me, from time to time.”

Arthur opened his mouth to retort but was forestalled by the doorbell.

“I’ll get it,” squealed Freya, who was wearing her Father Christmas onesie. She slithered across the wood floor and pulled the door open. Gwen and Lancelot almost fell inside.

“Whoa there!” said Lancelot. Percy loped over to him and covered his face with enthusiastic doggy kisses. “Ha-ha! Hey, buddy did you miss me, did you, did you?”

“Gwen! Lance!” squeaked Freya.

“Hush, Frey. You’ll wake Mordred,” said Merlin.

Freya rolled her eyes at him but reduced the volume a little bit. “Did you bring me sweeties, Auntie Gwen? Do you like my hair? Hello, Uncle Lancelot!” she simpered at Lance, and fluttered her lashes at him. “You look nice. I want a rabbit. Did you bring me a present? Isn’t the Christmas tree nice! Lauren has a rabbit. Papa's going to get me one.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Papa is not.”

Hunith held out her arms for Freya, who ran into them while Aithusa flitted ecstatically around their heads. The whole menagerie trooped into the living room, leaving Arthur with an empty hallway full of cases.

Aithusa chirruped at him. 

“No, little one,” he smiled. “These are too heavy.”

She let out a discontented sound and then flitted up to his shoulder, curling herself around his neck, while he bent to pick up a suitcase and started lugging it up the stairs. “What on Earth has she got in here. Bricks?”

“What?” Hunith poked her head around the door and flashed him a smile that was the mirror of Merlin’s. “Oh, sorry, Arthur, dear. Don’t worry, I’ll take it up later.”

It was amazing how genetics worked. Hunith didn’t have any of Merlin’s more esoteric talents, but she shared with him the most amazing skill of all; the power to melt the frostiest of hearts (Arthur’s) with just a tiny twinkle of her eyes. Arthur was powerless before such authentic appreciation. He would move mountains for one of those smiles, let alone a small number of suitcases, however heavy.

“I’ll do it, Hunith. I know my place.” He smiled back at her. “You go and play Monopoly with the others. It’ll be nice for Freya to have a game this afternoon, before she transforms. She’ll be miserable if she doesn’t get to play with her favourite Nana Hunith first. Just don’t promise her any rabbits, okay?”

“Of course, Arthur. She looks so happy. I know it can't be easy. You're doing a fabulous job with her."

“Oh! Thank you.” After that, Arthur had to compose himself by spending a few minutes standing with his back to Hunith’s bedroom door, proudly mouthing the words _fabulous job_ before coming back downstairs. 

Hot on Hunith's heels, Leon arrived with Morgana and Uther. 

“Ah. Arthur,” said Uther. “You look well.”

“Thank you, Father.” Arthur strode across to enfold his father in an embrace that was at once both awkward and at least a little bit affectionate, while Merlin looked on with a goofy expression on his face. “It’s good to see you.”

“I do hope that you are settling in all right with the… um.” Uther waved his hand at the room. “Family.”

“Yes, Father,” said Arthur. Goodness. _Family?_ Uther was being almost charitable! “Thank you, Father.”

But then Uther had to go and spoil it by sniffing the air. “What’s that extraordinary smell?”

Come to mention it, though, there was rather an odd smell…

“Oh, no!” Arthur bit his lip. He'd forgotten the mince pies! “Excuse me a moment.” Bugger, bugger, bugger.

When he opened the oven, a thick cloud of choking blue smoke gusted out, followed by a cascade of heavy, black goop that brought with it a tray of smouldering cinders, each of which was foaming like a volcano.

“Merlin!” he yelled out of the corner of his mouth as the goop oozed across the floor. Upon it floated the still intact mince-pie tin, sailing merrily across the bubbling, stinking black mess as if it were a raft. “Merlin, what _exactly_ did you do to the pies?”

“What?” Merlin skittered into the room and squawked at the rapidly expanding substance in dismay. “I just did an expanding spell. You said there wasn’t enough filling, so I…”

“Well, do something, idiot, before we need breathing apparatus!” yelled Arthur, desperately trying to dam the tide of toxic ooze—which was now creating a deepening pool—with a frying pan in one hand and a baking tin in the other.

Obligingly, Merlin incanted something. There was a puff of steam, and the ooze started to shrink, easing back inside the smouldering pies. Arthur grabbed the tray of charred former pies, setting it gingerly onto the chopping board. It raised a plume of steam that hissed at him, so he stood back, grabbing his towel to give the smoke a futile waft towards the partly open window.

“Sorry!” said Merlin. “I had no idea that the spell would make the mincemeat react to heat in that way!”

“No harm done.” Still panting, Arthur stared at his ruined pies and thanked his lucky stars that he still had a back-up supply of ready-made mince pies in his car boot. “That’s why God made Marks and Spencer.”

“No, Arthur, these will be fine. They just need a bit of a wipe!” Merlin picked one up, and promptly dropped it again. “Ouch. They’re hot.”

“Nice apron, little brother,” said Morgana, who was smirking as she leaned against the doorframe. “I’m not sure that Diana Prince would approve of the way you’ve emphasized her left nipple, though.”

Arthur glanced down at his Wonder Woman apron and sighed, humiliation complete.

****

Morgana

****

It was a perfect Christmas Eve scene in Arthur’s cosy, firelit living room. Morgana was seated by a large coffee table, along with several other rowdy Monopoly contestants. A merry fire burned in the hearth. Home-made baubles, constructed from discarded household items, festooned the huge Christmas tree, beneath which lurked a variety of enticing-looking packages. A huge, bright red, empty stocking dangled from the mantle. Someone had inexpertly cross-stitched Freya’s name across it.

It was good for Arthur, having a family. He looked more relaxed than Morgana had ever seen him, and he laughed all the time. When he had lived at home with Uther, he had rarely laughed; his face had become set in a sort of perplexed pout, with a pained line set between his brows. The line had faded now, and instead happy crinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. They suited him. Not that she would ever tell him that.

As the game progressed, Morgana rapidly came to appreciate her adopted niece’s fierceness, and her ability to distract Arthur from the myriad subtle ploys that Morgana could use to tilt the odds in her own favour.

“No deal! I will not bloody well swop Park Lane for Oxford Street, Nana Hunith!” Freya was saying, baring her single incisor. "That'll give you a set!"

“Freya!” scolded Arthur. “Watch your language, young lady!”

“You say bloody all the time, Papa!”

Arthur spluttered. “I do not!”

“Yes, you do, Arthur,” laughed Gwen. “She’s got you there!”

There! The perfect distraction. While they were squabbling, Morgana blew on the dice, and whispered a spell under her breath.

“What about Park Lane plus ten pounds?” Hunith tapped her stack of Monopoly money against the table.

“No way! Park Lane plus...” Freya frowned and counted out loud, using her fingers. “Two hundred pounds.”

“Two hundred?” said Hunith, mouth dropping open in mock outrage. “Are you trying to bankrupt me? I’ll give you twenty pounds more. That’s fair.”

“One hundred and fifty.”

“One hundred. That’s my final offer.”

“Deal.”

Cards and notes changed hands.

“You do know,” murmured Gwen while the squabbling intensified, “that Monopoly was designed to show why capitalism can only ever lead to an inequitable society?”

“Shut up, Gwen,” said Morgana throwing her dice. “It’s the best game ever made. Yes! Double six! I land on Go!”

When she had suggested a game of Monopoly, she had thought that Arthur would be her sternest opponent. However, she had underestimated both Hunith’s ruthlessness and Freya’s slyness. It seemed that Freya was inclined to cheat when things didn’t go her way. Not that Morgana was averse to cheating, of course. No, it was other people cheating that Morgana objected to.

Unfortunately, so did Freya. 

“I saw your eyes flash, bloody cheat!” Freya pointed an accusing finger at Morgana.

“Did not!” said Morgana. She put out her tongue.

“You did!” Freya squeaked. “Cheat!!”

“I did not.” She imbued her voice with enough magic to make the windows rattle (just a little bit), before she moved her counter (the hat) twelve spaces, narrowly avoiding landing on Freya’s property.

“Morgana keep the noise down,” interrupted Arthur. “You’ll wake M—.”

“I’ll make as much noise as I like!” Losing at Monopoly to her niece she could live with. But being bossed around by her little brother was simply intolerable. So, to show her disdain, she punctuated this statement with a venomous flash of her eyes that made the bell in one of the towers clang.

There was a far away, agonised howl,

“Oh, bugger,” said Merlin, looking around. “That’s done it…”

“Done what?” said Morgana, puzzled.

A far-off whisper of wind grew stronger and turned into a deafening caterwaul.

“What the hell is that?” Morgana put her hands over her ears, removing them only when the sound had diminished to a distant sort of painful keening.

Percival lay down on the rug with one forepaw draped over his face. The Monopoly table abruptly overturned, as if cast by some invisible hand, scattering player pieces, houses and properties everywhere. At the same time, all the lights winked out.

“Mordred!” yelled Arthur and Merlin in unison into the dark.

Ah. Oops. Morgana had wondered where the resident poltergeist, Mordred, had got to.

 “Well, that’s just bloody typical, thanks Morgana,” cried Arthur.

“It’s not her fault,” said Merlin. “She wasn’t to know Mordred was sleeping in the bell tower! Put the lights back on, Mordred, and stop making a mess.”

“Mordred, don’t be a poo-poo, I was winning,” cried Freya.

“Language, Freya,” said Arthur.

God, he really could be a boring old grumpyguts sometimes. Morgana was just about to point this out when the lights flickered out again. By the time they winked back on, Morgana was amused to see that Gwen was now on Lance’s lap, and Freya was holding Uther’s hand. Leon, in contrast, took a calm sip of his whisky. As she watched, he looked back at her with a smile, then leaned forward to pick up the dice and scattered counters, replacing them on the Monopoly board.

“I think it’s your go, Freya,” he said in that serious, measured voice of his. The one that made Morgana go all trembly in the knee department. Dear Leon. She wasn't the only one; his voice seemed to calm everyone down. 

“Oh, thanks Leon,” Merlin said, leaning forward to help. “I’m sorry about Mordred. He doesn’t mean to upset people. Poltergeists can’t help being a bit noisy and mischievous when they’ve just been woken up.”

Unfortunately, Leon was in the loo the next time they ran into a bad case of what Morgana had mentally dubbed Hypercompetitive Pendragonitis.

“I had Euston.” Freya snatched the card. 

“No, I had bl— Euston.” Arthur snatched it back. “You had The Angel, Islington. Mortgaged”

Freya stuck out her tongue. “You’re a poo-poo face.”

“Language, Freya!” Arthur laid his card down, face up.

Morgana had just opened her mouth to express her approval of Freya's use of the term poo-poo face for her brother, when a terrified, yet deep-throated and manly scream rent the air.

"Leon!" she cried, leaping to her feet.

 

****

_Gwen_

****

 

 

As everyone ran out of the room, Gwen exchanged a look with Lance and grabbed his hand.

"Don't panic," she said, trying to be reassuring. "This sort of thing happened all the time when I shared a flat with Merlin at uni. Well, not all the time! More like about once every month or two, if that. And mostly it was fine - I mean, we hardly ever ended having to take anyone to hospital. Or the doctor. And it was mostly their own fault, to be honest. I mean, not that it is ever the victim's fault! Not that there were victims. Honestly. It'll be fine." Oh, God. She was rambling and making things worse again. She bit her lip to stop herself from talking.

Just then, there was another muffled scream, with the word “help” bound up in it somewhere, and a sort of dull, insistent thud as if someone was trying to escape from a locked room.

“Leon?” Morgana cried, banging on the door of the downstairs loo. “Leon? Are you in there? Are you all right?”

“Help!” yelled Leon again. “There’s a fucking enormous... _thing_ in here!” His voice sounded panicked. “It’s bigger than my fucking hand! I think it wants to eat me.” There was a faint moan. “Hurry up! Aaargh! It’s on my leg! Get off me! Aaaargh!”

“Leon!” Morgana banged again. “Darling! Are you all right? Darling? Can you open the door?” She turned to Arthur and flashed him an accusing glare. “Arthur. Do something!”

But instead of replying, Arthur sighed and pinched the skin between his eyes. “Freya…”

“Yes Papa?”

“Do tell me you know where Tiny is?”

“Um…” Freya pouted. “She doesn’t like being locked up.”

“Oh, God,” said Arthur, raising his voice to add encouragingly, “It’s all right, Leon! Try not to move, she probably won’t bite… and anyway, if she does, her venom is not what it once was, just stay still and she will probably not bite again...”

“Venom?” screeched Morgana. She pounded on the door again. “Get my husband out of there at once!”

“Dear God,” said Uther. “Who is this _Tiny_ , anyway? Some sort of mentally deranged person? Is this a house or a lunatic asylum?”

"Tiny?" said Gwen, clapping her hands. She had no idea that Merlin still had Tiny after all these years. "No, she's Merlin's tarantula! She must be getting quite old now! Don't worry, Leon! She doesn't bite very often - only when she's cross." 

"You're not helping," came a muffled voice. 

By the time they had freed Leon and secured the unrepentant seven-legged tarantula safely back in its terrarium, dusk was fast approaching, and with it Freya’s transformation. While Merlin was off upstairs getting her ready, Gwaine finally arrived, clutching a bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand and a sack full of bottle-shaped gifts. 

Their party was complete. 

****

The house that Merlin shared with Arthur was exactly how Gwen had imagined it would be: ramshackle, rambling, and full of hidden nooks and crannies. As she walked up to her room, her feet tapped loudly on the wood floor of the grand staircase. It curved around the great entrance hall before giving way to a landing carpeted in threadbare yet ornate patterns. Ivy crept in around peeling, wooden window-panes and through cracks in the roof.

A faint, spicy aroma filled her room - cinnamon mixed with something else she couldn’t quite identify. There was something a bit off about it, but she could forgive the slightly funny smell, because although her room was draughty, a merry wood fire crackled in the grate. It cast dancing shadows up onto the ceiling. She hadn’t had a chance to examine the room in detail yet. She was looking forward to exploring the books on the shelves and investigating what treasures might lurk in the chest in the corner, and underneath the enormous double bed. But most of all, she was looking forward to a good night’s sleep. She’d been working nights for the past week and all those gruelling shifts on the paediatric intensive care ward had sapped her energy until exhaustion seeped into her bones.

A soft, fleecy rug lay on the hearth, warmed by the fire. It looked so inviting. With a happy sigh, she kicked off her uncomfortable work shoes and tights, and spent a moment or two luxuriating in the softness of the thick rug under her toes before moving off to the _en suite_ bathroom. There, a Victorian-style claw-foot bath beckoned. She had been a bit nervous of the plumbing in an old house like this, but the water, when it came out, was steaming hot, and Merlin had provided lavender bath foam. With a contented sigh, she lowered herself into the bath and let the heat seep through her muscles and the scent of lavender soothe her until she felt relaxed and floppy and ready to pull on her bedclothes.

Gwen was just cleaning her teeth when she heard a small but distinct scuttling sound behind the door into the bedroom. How odd. Ever the competitive one, Lance had been very keen to carry on playing charades with Leon, Gwaine and Arthur downstairs. But maybe he had come to bed after all?

“Lance?” Switching off the tap, she opened the door a crack and peeped around it. “Lancelot, is that you?”

But the room was silent, and nothing moved. She shrugged. Perhaps it was just a mouse or something? Merlin had always been an animal lover, after all.

She was just about to turn around and go back to finish taking off her make-up when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. There! The counterpane was twitching. There was a lump under the covers that she had thought was just Lance’s pyjamas. But when she looked more closely, she could see that it was moving. What on earth could it be? It was about the size of a domestic cat, but the noises that it was making were more… snuffly. And that cinnamon-y smell had become even stronger. Was this another one of Merlin's pets? Curious, she tip-toed over to the bed, and put a cautious hand on the lump. It wriggled under her fingers.

“Hello?” she said.

When she spoke, the shape seemed to split into several different, smaller shapes which scattered away from her hand. How odd. It was as if there were several… somethings. All hiding beneath Gwen’s bedclothes.

“Don’t be scared, I won’t hurt you. Out you come!”

Abruptly, Gwen pulled back the covers, and then stepped back in alarm, hand flying to her mouth as she screamed as loudly as she could.

Gwen had always liked to think that she had nerves made, if not of steel, certainly of something very strong, like bronze or something. Copper and tin mixed together. When she was growing up, her father had always told her that a blacksmith’s daughter had metal running through her veins.

But then again, Tom had never anticipated that one day she would be standing in her nightie in someone else’s house on Christmas Eve with a clutch of tiny, terrified, new-hatched baby dragons mewling at her, while their slightly bigger parent flew loop-the-loops around her head and screeched out protective, dragonish insults. In the circumstances, Gwen thought very little further justification was needed for screaming her heart out.

By the time the door burst open, and Morgana burst through, Gwen was crouching in the corner with her arms around her head, making vague flapping movements with her hands to stop said dragon from igniting her hair.

“Gwen?” Morgana said. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“Of course, I’m not all right!” Gwen trembled as she pointed at the bobbing dragons. “There are baby lizards all over my bed, and their mum… Aithusa…” She gulped for breath. “It won’t leave me alone, and I love fire, my dad’s a blacksmith, but… not in my bedroom…! And Lancelot’s downstairs being a prat with the other prats, and he should be here… And it’s been so hard at work this week, it always is when it’s nearly Christmas, I just want to cry in front of a soppy Hallmark movie and then drink a lot of hot chocolate. But no, I’ve got to find somewhere to put all these little creatures, and there’s this weird _smell_ everywhere, and where is Merlin? I’m sure it's all his fault! I know what he’s like, he was always rescuing mice at uni, you should have seen our kitchen, Morgana, honestly…” 

Oh, God. She was babbling. And her voice kept shaking, and her legs had given way. And where the fuck was Lance?

“There, there, Gwen. It’s only Aithusa, she was surprised that’s all, weren’t you, sweeting?” Morgana cooed at the indignant white dragon that was now flitting around her neck, its tail whipping around as it changed direction. “There, Aithusa. Did you have some babies? You clever girl.”

Adding insult to Gwen’s original injury, the dragon chirruped and settled on Morgana’s shoulder, nibbling a chocolate mint stick out of Morgana’s fingers, and then started to make a noise that if she hadn’t known better Gwen would describe as a purr. It sounded almost cute.

“They’re so pretty, darling. Show me.” Morgana knelt on the bed where the tiny mewling creatures cried up at her. “Awww. I love them. Can I pet them? Can one of them come and live with me? Can it? Gwen do come and have a look. They’re adorable!”

Gwen crossed her arms and frowned. “You’re supposed to be rescuing me!” 

Although now that her heart had stopped pounding, curiosity was beginning to get the better of her. The tiny dragonlings were quite cute, she supposed. Each one was about the size of her hand. Their iridescent hides shone in many hues, reflecting the bedside lamplight. And their mother, now that she had stopped screeching, looked quite sweet with her pale scales and delicate little wings. Gwen found herself fighting a sudden urge to pet her behind her dragonish ears.

By the time the men finally found the source of the kerfuffle, Gwen had two of the babies in each hand and was trying to decide which one of them she would like to adopt. The rest of them were snoozing on Morgana’s lap, with their mum humming to them.

“Well,” said Lancelot, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “That’s not a sight I ever thought I would see!”

“Aithusa!” scolded Merlin as he stepped through the door. “You naughty girl, scaring Gw— oh! Oh! They’ve hatched! Oh! You clever girl! Look at your beautiful babies!”

“What do you mean, _they’ve_ hatched? Who the fuck are _they_...” Arthur pushed past Lancelot and Merlin and stood gawking at the snoozing, multicoloured dragonlings who lay in his sister’s lap. “Oh, my God. What the fuck are we going to do with them? Merlin?”

“Don’t be such a grouch,” said Merlin. “We’ll keep them, obviously! Who’s my best girl? Come to daddy, you clever mum you!”

With a happy noise, Aithusa paused in her song and flew down onto Merlin’s shoulder, nibbling at his ear until he chuckled and told her to quit.

“So. Merlin,” growled Arthur. He pointed a finger. “You said _they’ve hatched._ Why do you sound so unsurprised by this? You knew, didn’t you.”

“Me?” Merlin, the unashamed flirt, flashed his most innocent puppy-eye look at Arthur.

Gwen snorted. Honestly, whoever it was that said that women were manipulative hadn’t met Merlin in full-on sneaky mode. For a moment, she almost felt sorry for Arthur.

After all, back when Gwen had shared Merlin’s flat and knew nothing of his magical powers, she had been on the receiving end of that look so many times she couldn’t count. When the lights went out, when the microwave stopped working, when the internet was flaky, when her lipstick all went missing - honestly, there were no end of things that magical excitement could disrupt accidentally when your flatmate was a closeted sorcerer with a crush on his best friend and no idea how to control his emotions.

“Yes, you, _Mer_ lin.” Arthur frowned and sniffed the air. “Wait a minute. What’s that smell?”

“Mmm?” Merlin lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

“The Christmas bloody puddings!” Abruptly, Arthur dived down beneath Gwen’s bed.

That was it. He’d obviously gone mad. The combination of dragon-induced stress and magical, cheekbone-induced charm had clearly put Arthur into some kind of catatonic state. Gwen needed to intervene, and quickly. She crouched down by his side. “Are you all right, Arthur?”

“No! Because this dragon is stupid!” When Arthur emerged, clutching armfuls of discarded packaging, not to mention the mouldering remnants of what looked like several decomposing Christmas puddings, she began to revise her opinion about who might be suffering a breakdown.

Still, at least that cleared up what the funny smell was. Of course, Christmas puddings would last for months if you kept them sealed, but clearly Aithusa hadn’t got the memo about keeping the wrappers on. And it turned out that mouldy Christmas pudding didn’t smell very nice at all.

“Ugh!” Gwen clamped a hand over her nose. She went over to the window and wrestled one-handed with the fastener until it opened a notch.

“Oh, Gwen, I’m so sorry. She’s been hoarding them, you see. You naughty girl,” scolded Merlin. “You’d better help clean that mess up! Poor Gwen has to sleep in here! I bet this sort of thing doesn’t happen in her house!”

The unrepentant little dragon flew up onto the top of the wardrobe and chittered at him, silly little thing. She was so sweet. Her scolding sounded for all the world like one of Gwen’s many elderly aunties back in Guyana when she brought Lancelot to visit for the first time. And as for Merlin… trust him to have adopted a pregnant dragon!

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen grinned, affection blossoming in her chest. “You’re right, this sort of thing doesn’t happen in my house any more, and do you know how much I miss it? Now come here and give me a massive hug, you silly sausage, and promise me you will never change!”

She enfolded him in a hug. He buried his face in her fluffy dressing gown.

“I promise,” he said in a muffled voice.

From the doorway, she could still hear Lancelot chuckling.

****

_Merlin_

****

A grey and drizzly dawn heralded Christmas Morning. A few desultory robins tweeted in the dank garden while the rain drenched everything in a slick coat of water. Damn it all. Where was the perfect white Christmas that Merlin had hoped for?

Ah, well. It would be a good day to spend inside, eating and drinking too much, playing the sort of games that no-one would dream of playing for the rest of the year, while trying to prevent anyone from being burned, poisoned, or accidentally slashed by a careless fang or claw.

“Santa, Baby,” Merlin hummed as he chopped onions. “Hurry down the chimney to me.”

He had risen early, before the clock in the lounge struck seven. He didn’t really need to; the advantage of doing a vegetarian Christmas dinner was that he didn’t need to worry about icky stuff like poisoning his guests with uncooked meat. But he didn’t want them complaining about flavourlessness either.

Speaking of whom, the rest of the lazy lubbers were still up in bed. Freya, who would stay in cat form until daybreak, was curled up in her basket in the kitchen. And after Merlin had ensured that Morgana and Leon were safely ensconced in the Green Room, away from possible incursions by Mordred, there had been no further shenanigans, as Uther had so elegantly phrased it. Apart from a head that was slightly sore from Uther’s posh whisky, Merlin was suffering from no ill effects. So far, as Christmas went, so good.

With a yawn, he frowned at his cookbook. The recipe as it stood did seem awfully plain. But that was okay, he was sure he could pep it up a bit.

First, he fried off the vegetables, only burning the onion a little bit. He thought he could remember reading somewhere that burnt onion was good for the skin, so that would probably be okay.

Scratching at his head, he then stumbled past the heavy kitchen table to a beam from which his dried herbs dangled. He gave this thick tangle of dried greenery and roots a tentative sniff.

The trouble with learning his culinary skills from his Uncle Gaius was that Merlin was more used to chopping herbs up for medicines that tasted awful than for food that tasted nice. In the end, he went for fennel, thyme, mint and rosemary. After a few minutes contemplating the outcome, he added turmeric, chilli, liquorice root and ginger, reasoning that if their guests didn’t like the result, he could always use the gravy as a remedy for Percival’s asthma. He chopped the herbs into a fine green-and-yellow mush with a quick spell, and added the lot to the fried veg, together with chopped nuts, breadcrumbs, and a couple of tins of mashed up chilli beans.

There. That would be much more interesting.

He was getting really creative now.

Based on some vaguely remembered episodes of _Masterchef_ , he augmented this concoction with a dash of lemon verbena and some dried glace cherries from the store cupboard and started to hum as he worked to mix everything up to a thick paste that he could shape into a loaf and roast. It smelled a bit funny, but he was sure it would be delicious once it was cooked.

But peering once more at the recipe, he realised he’d forgotten to add garlic. The recipe said to be generous with it, so he smashed up a couple of heads of garlic with his magic and chucked them into a pan of hot fat. Delicious garlicky smells filled the air. Perfect! He was getting the hang of this cooking business. It was easier than everyone made it out to be. Things felt almost peaceful. It would be a perfect Christmas, he was sure, and everyone would have a lovely time, and the food would be fabulous, just as long as he could get on with it uninterrupted...

At that moment, a small, black kitten emerged blinking from her basket, butting at his ankles and mewling pitifully. He kneeled to greet her.

“Good morning, Freya, sweetheart,” he said, charmed as always by her tiny ears, which he tickled until she purred. “Did you sleep all right?”

She nipped at his hand with one sharp little tooth.

“Ow!” he chuckled. “All right, I know you’re hungry, but you’ll be back in girl form in no time and then you can have some cereal.” Freya was always starving after her transformations, but he’d got a packet of her favourite crunchy nut cereal in specially. She’d need all her energy for today. After all, it was Christmas Day.

Tail twitching, she pounced on a small toy mouse and batted it across the room with a tiny forepaw. At that moment, Percival appeared, yawning, saliva dripping from his huge gaping maw, and woofed. Of course, the colossal sound woke Aithusa, who started to nip at Percival’s ears and scold him for waking her babies, and then the noise woke Mordred, which meant that the whole house was treated to a mischievous outburst that culminated in all the Christmas lights flickering on and off so fast that the fuses went.

Well, with all this going on, Merlin could hardly be blamed for burning the garlic and forgetting to put the nut loaf in the oven, could he?

****

Arthur

****

It was only half past eight in the morning, and already Arthur knew he was about to have the traditional Christmas argument with his father. To arm himself against the imminent confrontation, he pulled on his most festive jumper before knocking on Uther’s door.

“Good morning, Father, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, son.” Uther was, as always, impeccably dressed, wearing his Christmas cravat, a plain white shirt and a pair of pressed trousers with a crease down the front that you could cut paper with. “Hmm. Interesting jumper.”

“Thank you, Father.” Arthur glanced down at the christmas pudding. A jaunty knitted sprig of holly waved at him. “I do like to enter into the Christmas spirit.” 

“Good, good.” Uther sniffed the air, brow furrowing. “Is the turkey cooking already? It smells... interesting.”

“Ah. About that.” Arthur had wondered how long it would take for Uther’s more carnivorous urges to surface. “It’s not really a traditional Christmas dinner. Well, not like the old sort, anyway. No, today we’ll be having nut loaf…”

“Nut loaf? For Christmas dinner?” The horror on Uther’s face would be comical if it were not so bloody predictable.

“Now, Father, I know it’s not what you’re used to,” said Arthur. “But Merlin’s family are vegetarian, and Freya has specific needs.”

“Your mother always used to get the finest turkey, straight from the farm… or, failing that, Marks and Spencer, which amounts to the same thi—”

“Honestly, Father, don’t make such a fuss. It is our house and I will not have you insulting Merl—”

“ _Merlin’s_ cooking? That boy could burn a pot nood—”

“I know, but nevertheless, I will not have him insulted in his own home because you’re too bloody ignorant to appreciate how a carnivorous diet degrades the envir—”

“Ignorant? How dare you! I brought you up better than tha—”

And there it was. The argument. It started differently every year, but the consequence was always the same. Two men, standing at the top of the stairs, yelling and pointing fingers at one another until someone came along to shame them into behaving themselves.

“Insufferable, pompous, entitled prig—” Arthur was yelling when finally, Hunith emerged from the purple room, rubbing sleep from her eyes and shaking her head.

“I never thought that my own son would turn into such a sanctimonious, liberal snowflake—” Uther bellowed. “I’ve never been so insulted in—Ah! Hunith. Ahem. Good morning. Merry Christmas—”

“Is something the matter?” said Hunith in a quiet voice that somehow managed to cut through all the male posturing and make them shuffle their feet like a pair of embarrassed schoolboys.

“He was rude,” said Arthur, pouting.

“Do excuse my son,” said Uther, at the same time. “He seems to have forgotten his manners.”

Arthur’s mouth dropped open. “ _I_ ’ve forgotten my manners? You were the one who—”

“Oh, don’t give me that—”

“Ahem!” Merlin was standing at the top of the stairs with a tray bearing cups, a pot of tea, and a jug of milk. Behind him bobbed another tray, held up by magic, no doubt. The second tray bore a selection of soot-blackened objects that upon closer inspection turned out to be Arthur’s home-made mince pies, salvaged from Christmas Eve’s aborted baking attempt. “Tea, anyone? Arthur made the pies. They’re not as bad as they look, honestly.”

“Oh, so now he is trying to poison me, is he?” said Uther, lip lifting into an ugly sneer.

And that was it. Something snapped. Fury and disappointment flashed through Arthur, making him clench everything—fists, jaw, arms...

Why weren’t those bloody mince pies in the bin? Arthur had bought some from the shop. Why the hell was Merlin parading all Arthur’s failures like this? How bloody dare he?

“For fuck’s sake, Merlin,” Arthur roared. “Will you bloody well shut up? It’s none of your fucking business. Why do you always have to barge in unasked? Now, take those fucking burnt mince pies and fuck right off!”

****

By lunchtime when Arthur emerged from his huff, most of which he had spent sulking in the loo, Merlin was bustling around with a smile plastered to his face that the uninitiated might think indicated Christmas cheer, but in reality Arthur knew betrayed a deep and terrified anxiety, not to mention a buried hurt at the bitter words that Arthur had flung at him earlier. Both the anxiety and the hurt were sadly well-founded. The anxiety lay in Merlin’s anticipation that the nut loaf would be cold and inedible, the gravy congealed, and the roast potatoes overcooked. The hurt was even more difficult to fix. Arthur and his big mouth.

Fuck. He’d made a massive mess of things.

“It’s delicious, Merlin, now come and sit down,” Arthur said, trying to be conciliatory. He patted the chair next to him, scowling at his father, who was poking at his plate.

“But I’ve forgotten the sprouts!” Merlin bit his lip.

Arthur knew how this went. Inside, Merlin, never one to deal well with emotional turmoil, would be a seething wreck of insecurity right now. Which meant that he would lose track of all the many things that he needed to do to keep Christmas dinner ticking over. Not that he was that well equipped to deal with them in the first place.

“Sprouts?” Morgana adopted a mock-horrified expression. “Oh no, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without small, toxic green fart balls, Merlin! Arthur’s right. Leave the sprouts and come and sit down.”

“Yes, Merlin,” Gwen chimed in. “Nobody needs sprouts, Merlin darling, now come and join us. I want to pull my Christmas cracker!”

Of course, even with all the guests protesting their loathing for sprouts, it took another ten minutes of faffing before Merlin could be persuaded to settle. But settle, he eventually did. By Arthur’s side. Where he belonged. Even though there might as well have been a gaping chasm between them right now, for all that they could communicate about the things that mattered with all their guests waiting for the signal to eat their dinner.

At least, after breezing through the house waking all their guests in a burst of adrenaline early that morning, the garlic-hating Mordred had gone off to sulk somewhere - probably hiding out in the basement with his toys and dreaming up more elaborate pranks for later. Mind you, Arthur wouldn’t put it past him to have left some sort of mischief. He had lingered for quite a while in the dining room before shredding wrapping paper all over the kitchen. But Arthur managed to tamp down his momentary uneasiness at the thought.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right.

“What is this… thing?” Uther said, peering down at his nose at his plate and prodding at a blackish blob of something inside the nut loaf as if it was one of his pathological specimens. A muscle twitched in his forehead and he opened his mouth to continue but closed it again when he met Arthur’s gaze.

“Um. Garlic?” Merlin trained his most innocent expression on Uther before scooping a mouthful of his food into his mouth and starting to chew. He was chewing for some time.

“I believe you’re meant to peel it, before cooking it, boy.” Uther stuck his fork into the thing again and sighed. His eyes did that thing where they went all squinty that Arthur knew of old meant that he was still suffering from the whisky he’d guzzled the night before.

“More bread, Father?” said Arthur before adding, viciously, “or more _wine_?”

“Wine?” Wincing, Uther put his hand over his glass and shook his head. “Ah. No, no. Not just yet, thank you. Just the bread will be fine.”

“Can we open our crackers yet?” Freya was bouncing up and down on her chair. “Please Dad, please Papa?”

“All right, Freya.” Great idea. Perhaps this might distract everyone from the awfulness of the food. Arthur picked up his cracker and waggled it with a bright smile. “Cross arms everyone!”

The assembled guests did that complicated dance that always results in someone forgetting to cross their arms (Freya) and someone ending up with too many crackers (Gwaine). Eventually, everyone had one end of a cracker in each hand and Arthur felt that he could start the countdown.

“One, two… no Freya, you can’t hold the middle like that, it’s cheating!”

“But Papa! Uncle Gwaine is cheating, he’s holding the bit what goes bang!”

“I am not! I’m just steadying it!”

 “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Morgana, rolling her eyes. “Gwaine, stop winding up my favourite niece!”

Gwaine stuck out his tongue, which made Freya giggle. Leon and Lance did some sort of complicated thing with their crackers, and Leon’s cracker popped.

“Oops!” said Leon.

“So… Morganaaaa,” drawled Gwaine. “How long has Leon suffered from premature _e-cracker-ulation_?” There was a loud groan from the majority of their guests, even Freya, which was a bit worrying until Arthur realised that she was probably laughing because everyone else was. This suspicion was confirmed, when she then betrayed herself by asking in the next breath what e-cacky-lation was.

“Shut up everyone!” bellowed Arthur. “And pull your damned crackers on the count of three. One… two… three!”

He gave both crackers a determined tug and...

BOOM! FIZZLE! CRACK! 

The sound was so loud that Arthur wondered for a moment if there had been a sudden thunderstorm.

"Jesus Christ!" yelled someone through the fog of smoke.

Daylight and rain started to filter in through the massive hole in the ceiling. 

“Well, fuckety fuck,” said Gwaine, blowing dust out of his hair.

“Papa says you sh’u’n’t say that word,” said Freya.

“I take it all back, Sweet Pea.” Arthur rubbed his stinging eyes. “Sometimes, just sometimes, no other word will do.”

“Dear God,” said Uther, spluttering as he wiped plaster from his mouth and brush dust off his sleeves. “What is that god-awful _smell_?”

“Smell?” Arthur sniffed the air, and then wished he hadn’t. “Oh, my God!” He clamped his hand over his mouth and nose, choking.

For a sulphurous stench, evocative of blocked drains mixed with rotten fish and a liberal supply of flatulent cabbage, filled his nostrils. It reminded him oddly of his prep school days, when Gwaine had gone through a phase of letting off stink bombs to get out of Latin classes.

“Freya.” Merlin’s mouth was set into a thin, straight line and his eyes had taken on that deep-set intent look that always made shivers go up and down Arthur’s spine. The effect was only partly spoiled by the dust that now stained his eyebrows white. “Freya, I want to tell me the absolute truth, now.”

She swallowed and replied in a small, trembly voice, “Yes, Daddy.”

“What exactly was it that you gave Mordred for Christmas this morning?” 

****

Part of the joy of living in Avalon Cottage, out here in the woods with the owls and the shiny holly and the whispering beech trees, was its isolation from their nearest neighbours and from the stresses of twenty-first century living. There was a television signal, but mobile phone signals were patchy at best. And best (or worst, depending on your perspective) of all, according to Morgana at least, no internet. Not that any self-respecting internet connection would last very long when it encountered Merlin’s powerful magical field. But sometimes, just sometimes, Arthur found himself wishing that he could enjoy some modern amenities. Access to the fire brigade, for example. And maybe gas masks.

Because even after the smoke and dust had cleared—courtesy of a few tiny elves holding brooms and even tinier though very efficient fans—and Merlin had applied magical first aid to restore Uther’s missing eyebrow and Gwaine’s suddenly empty hairline, Arthur could still smell the lingering vestiges of a powerful, eggy stench.

When pressed, the weeping Freya had confessed that she had bought Mordred a practical joke set for Christmas, which clearly the evil little poltergeist had augmented with some special magic of his own before lacing the Christmas crackers with flatulent slime, because the stink had been phenomenal. And now they were all standing outside, under a shield constructed of Merlin’s magic, while the roof repaired itself and magical air-pumps cleared the air in the rest of the house. There was no rescuing Christmas dinner, though; rain was still cascading through the dining room roof as they watched.

“I’m so, so sorry,” said Merlin for the fifteenth time as he tried to wipe foul green slime off Hunith’s sparkly top. “Mordred’s never been this naughty before, I’ve got no idea what’s got into him…”

There was a forlorn droop to Merlin’s shoulders that should not be there, on Christmas day. The defeated angle of this droop offended Arthur. It made him want to yell at things and bash things until the droop went away again, and Merlin returned to a more acceptable version of himself.  One prone to indignant bit of finger pointing, perhaps. Or, even better: snappy comeback with a dash of snark.

“He’s bloody showing off,” sobbed Freya. “I told you he’s a big fat poo-poo. He’s got a crush on Auntie Morgana and he’s showing off. BIG FAT POO-POO!” she yelled at the top of her voice.

In answer, a rude noise rumbled up from the basement, making the ground shake.

“Hush, Freya,” barked Arthur, which had the opposite effect to that intended, because the volume of Freya’s wails increased ten-fold.

On second thoughts, maybe it was just as well that the nearest inhabited building was a good five miles away.

“Arthur,” admonished Hunith. “You’ll frighten her.” She held out her newly laundered arms, and Freya leapt into them, her little shoulders shaking.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Merlin was saying as he eyed the damage to Uther’s clothing. “Let me…”

In response to a quick spell, a score or more of tiny, glowing elves appeared. They clucked and fussed over the soot-blackened tear in Uther’s cravat, and set to work mending it with a jolly little pattern fashioned of penguins wearing red hats. Scowling, Uther batted them away with one hand. They vanished with a forlorn squeak.

“I’m starving,” grumbled Gwaine. “Hey, Uther, man, have you got any more of that whisky?”

“I have not, because _someone_ swigged it all out of the bottle,” said Uther, frown deepening. “As well you know, you idle, booze-soaked, feckless thief.”

“Hey, who are you calling a thief, you Tory git?” Gwaine squared his shoulders and poked Uther’s chest. “You’re all the same, you Tories, pointing fingers at everyone who borrows a little bit of this and that among friends, but it’s okay for you to squirrel away all your money overseas and avoid tax, eh? Eh?” He poked again.

“How dare you?” Uther gave Gwaine an answering shove. “I have always paid all the taxes that the law demands.”

“Right, and I’ll bet you pay an army of accountants to find as many loopholes as possible. Bloody in-bred parasite.”

“At least I have never been on the wrong side of the law. It’s a simple case of good breeding. I am sure your family cannot say the same.”

“You leave my family out of it.” With a growl of outrage, Gwaine took a clumsy swing at Uther’s jaw.

Thankfully it did not connect, because Uther sprang back, fists raised. “I see. A brawler. Just as I thought.”

Oh, God. This was going to turn into a proper fight, if someone didn’t intervene soon.

“Stop it!” yelled Arthur, stepping between them and grabbing one lapel in each hand. They strained against him, snarling in their attempts to attack each other.

“Gwaine’s right though, Arthur,” interjected Morgana. “I’m hungry, too. We’re all hungry. Aren’t we?” She nudged Leon. “Aren’t we?” she hissed again, but angrier.

“What?” he said, lifting a surprised eyebrow. “Well, actually I think…”

“You’re not meant to think, _Leon_ ,” she hissed. “You’re meant to support _me_. _Husband._ ”

"Not when you're being unreasonable, my love."

"Unreasonable?" Morgana's voice went up a dangerous notch. "I'll show you unreasonable."

Arthur didn’t reply. He was too busy struggling to keep Uther and Gwaine apart. Gritting his teeth, he gave Gwaine a heavy shove, sending him flying. Gwaine stumbled backwards, hitting the gravel with his bum. Meanwhile, as the quarrel between Morgana and Leon intensified, Lancelot and Gwen stepped in to mediate. Unfortunately, this had the unintended result that each of them took sides and waded into the argument with gusto. Voices rose. Percival joined in with a loud howl that made the tree trunks shiver.

“Do something, Arthur,” mouthed Hunith over the top of Freya’s head. She nodded across the drive to the edge of the hasty shelter that Merlin had erected with his magic.

Merlin stood there, stricken, mouth downturned, as his friends and family raged and fought.

“Shut up, everyone!” Arthur yelled. “Shut up! Shut up!”

Miraculously, the tumult dimmed, giving way to the steady hiss of the rain as they all gawked at him.

“I’m sorry,” said Merlin into the sudden quiet. “This is all my fault. All I wanted was a perfect, family Christmas and now it’s ruined.” Merlin’s eyes gleamed in the pale rainbow light that the elves produced, and a tremor appeared in his voice. “I should have known I wouldn’t be able to do it. I failed.”

Before anyone could stop him, Merlin turned and walked away into the forest by himself.

“Merlin!” said Arthur, running after him and grabbing his elbow. They were outside the magical shield here, and the rain was coming down hard. Soon they were both soaked, but Arthur couldn’t think of what words could comfort his husband, so instead he tried to fold Merlin into a hug. “Merlin! You do not get to take responsibility for everything. You do not! This is not just about you!” He gave his husband a little shake.

“Don’t.” Merlin shrugged him off. “I’m sorry, Arthur. It was a stupid idea, getting our families together like this. Mordred has needs… we can’t… and your father and Gwaine were never going to…” Merlin gulped. “And… and Aithusa stole Gwen’s bed, and look how Percival’s asthma is playing up, and you were so _angry_ with me…” His eyes started to glitter, and he threw his hands up in the air. “Look. Don’t come after me. I, um. I think… I think… I think I want to be alone. For a bit. Um.”

Shaking off Arthur’s hand, he turned away and walked into the densest, dankest part of forest, which parted before him and zipped up behind him like a tree-ish curtain.

“Merlin?” called Arthur. “Merlin!” But his husband had vanished.

When he turned back, water was dripping off his hair and onto his ridiculous Christmas jumper, and he was shaking from the cold… and from anger. Shocked faces—human, dragonine, half-feline and canine—turned to him.

“Arthur...” said Gwen, sympathy written all over her face.

“Be quiet.” He strode forward and lifted a trembling finger. “You… all of you… every single one of you… of us... are all to blame for this. My husband...” his voice shook. “My… my wonderful, kind-hearted husband has done his level best to make us all happy. And what does he get in return?”

No-one would meet his eye, except Percy, who whined and then put his paws over his head.

“Pranks, criticism and complaints, that’s what. Anger, insults and abuse. Merlin has taken us all under his wing, All of us! Yes, even me!” He swallowed when he remembered what he’d said to Merlin earlier. “In fact, I’m the worst! All of us with our rough edges and our difficult behaviours. And he’s made a home for us here without reservation. Without… without stopping to question how difficult that might be… And in return…” he paused to mop his brow with a wet hanky. “In return, the least we can bloody well do is to make a better effort to get along. Not because our selfish needs will be met. But because otherwise we will continue to make the most big-hearted, kindest man alive sad, and that is a terrible thing to do on Christmas Day. I hope you are all ashamed of yourselves.”

“What do you want us to do?” said Hunith, so simply that Arthur wanted to hug her which he couldn’t because it would ruin his stern facade.

“I want you to fix it.” He glared round the semicircle of contrite looking family. “I want you to fix Christmas for him. All of you.”

There was a sad sort of fizzle as a party popper tried to go off but failed.

“Yes, it does mean you, Mordred,” Arthur replied.

The party popper hissed.

“In fact, Mordred, you will come with me. And together we will find him and bring him back. And when we get back here, we will all, say sorry for squabbling and moaning and ruining my husband’s first Christmas as host.” Arthur’s eyes prickled, and he blinked. “All of us,” he added. “And most of all, me.”

Then he turned and walked into the dank gloom of the encroaching trees. A breeze followed him on one side, making the dripping wet boughs sigh and droop. It was quite comforting, in a way, even though he knew it was only Mordred.

****

Merlin

****

Eventually, as Merlin walked, the sounds of squabbling diminished, leaving him with the peaceful hiss of rain through dull brown beech leaves, and the steady rhythm of his feet as they squelched through sodden fallen leaves and mud. The cool water on his skin and the blood pumping round his body made him tingle all over, alive and awake and in the centre of his world, with power springing from his fingertips as they brushed the undergrowth, connecting him with all the creatures and plants that dwelt here. He was at peace here, at one with the forest, in his rightful place.

But alone. And hurting.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop brooding on the utter failure and humiliation of the past few days. Not to mention Arthur’s anger. Oh, God. Arthur’s anger and his pain. Merlin should have known that with Uther there criticising everything, Arthur would hurt like that. His father was his blind spot, a sore wound that festered and never healed. And despite his adoration of the man's voice, sometimes Merlin detested Uther both for owning such a fundamental part of Arthur so thoroughly, and for being so horribly careless with it.

And as for Arthur… ugh. How Merlin hated it when Arthur lashed out like that. He couldn’t help hating it. It was a visceral reaction. When Arthur yelled like that, abandoning his self in his utter rage and frustration, it struck directly at Merlin’s heart and made Merlin clam up completely, retreating into himself. And he knew that Arthur hated the way that confrontation made Merlin go all silent. It made Arthur angrier, and then he would start to shout even louder, which only made things worse.

Of course, long ago, as their relationship evolved, they had worked out their own ways of coping. When they had an argument, after all the yelling (Arthur’s) led to defensive silences (Merlin’s), Merlin would normally put distance between them, while Arthur would rage to himself for a bit and brood. They would seek each other out when they had calmed down enough to talk things through. Not without tears and shaky voices and the like, but enough for them to reach a mutual understanding.

But today… Arthur had blown up like that, yelling at him in front of his father and everyone else, and Merlin just couldn’t react in his normal way. Instead, he had to just swallow everything and smile, which made him feel horrible. And then all those other things had gone wrong and Merlin just… he just couldn’t cope any more with wanting to fall apart while that audience of all the people he loved watched him, with their sympathetic but judging eyes.

Deep down, when he thought about things, Merlin knew that Arthur didn’t mean to hurt him like that. But neither could Merlin help the way that it made him feel. They needed distance and privacy to talk things out - neither of which were easy to come by, not when they were both under the family microscope.

It had been a big mistake, trying to host their first Christmas as a married couple here at home with their whole families. It was bound to go wrong, Merlin could see that now.

After a bit of aimless meandering through the damp woods, Merlin found himself at the entrance to a small cabin that had been here for years. Wooden and ramshackle, with broken floorboards in spots, it was a relic of some long-forgotten woodsman’s shelter or scout hut or something. There was a heavy padlock on the door preventing entry—presumably so that no-one would damage themselves on the no-doubt rotten structure—but the porch was dry. Merlin sat on the edge of it, legs dangling, listening to the steady drum of rain on the eaves above him, and closed his eyes.

He had come here with Arthur many times. Together, they would sit on the bare boards, bums going numb with the cold and damp, staring quietly, breathing in the musty leaf-litter air, united in their companionship and the occasional quiet woodland noises. Sometimes they would hold hands and sit in silence, gazing out into the calm brown lines of tree-trunks, pointing out a shy muntjac here or pied woodpecker there. Although a public footpath passed nearby, people rarely strayed nearby. It felt like a private, primordial world, far from the encroachment of modern life.

So, he wasn’t surprised when he heard the soft rustle of approaching footsteps, the creak of a protesting floorboard, and felt a warm hand on his.

“You’re freezing.”

“And you’re a prat.”

“I know, but you love me anyway.”

Merlin’s eyes flew open, where his gaze alighted on a concerned pair of blue eyes and a sturdy, square jaw. “God help me, I do.”

There was a sad tinge to Arthur’s smile as he nodded and thumbed away the moisture from Merlin’s cheek. Which was when Merlin realised that he was both weeping and trembling from the cold.

“I’m sorry, Merlin.”

“I’m sorry too.” Merlin shrugged. “I didn’t mean to upset you… I mean, I realise that I… I mean, I should have thought about it, before I brought out those damned mince pies. And I know that you, when your father...”

It was normally easier to let the words out when they were sitting next to each other like this than when they were facing one another, but for some reason, today had robbed him of the ability to find the right ones. So instead, he squeezed Arthur’s hand and hoped it conveyed the right amount of regret and conciliation without glossing over his own distress.

“It wasn’t your fault, Merlin. I can’t expect you to understand how I feel all the time, especially with Father there. I was angry, and I yelled, and I know that hurts you, and I’m sorry for that.”

When Arthur leaned forward, and their lips met, the moment was spoiled by a loud, disgusted farting noise from somewhere behind Merlin’s left shoulder. They sprang apart, erupting in laughter born of relief and surprise. At the same time, a dry blanket settled itself across Merlin’s shoulders and a quiet, conciliatory voice spoke directly into Merlin’s mind.

_Sorry. I miss Christmas. Please come back._

Poor Mordred. His life so cruelly cut short like that. He had missed out on so many years of happy Christmases.

“It’s all right, Mordred,” said Merlin out loud after a moment. “We’ll come back, I promise.” 

A tuneless whistle started, piercing enough to make Merlin wince, but then it floated off into the woods, disappearing behind a holly bush and then meandering off between the trees.

“You’re too bloody forgiving, sometimes,” murmured Arthur as he moved back in for a kiss.

“I’ll try to be meaner.”

“Do.” Arthur paused. There was a moment or two where their mouths were occupied, but not in speech, before he added. “But not to me. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Mirth bubbled up in Merlin’s throat. “That would not do at all.”

“As long as we’ve got that straight.”

“Entitled prat.”

“Bumbling bumpkin.”

“Pompous old clot.” Merlin nudged Arthur’s side.

“Oi!” Arthur pushed Merlin’s shoulder. “Less of the old.”

Merlin scampered off before Arthur could catch him.

****

They were both laughing and out of breath by the time they got back to the driveway, where Merlin expected to see their gathered guests waiting for them. But instead, the driveway was empty. At least the rain had begun to ease off. And when Merlin reached out with his magic, he could feel that the newly-healed roof of the area affected by the exploding Christmas cracker was now fully covered over. His elves had done their work. 

“Can you dry us off?” A shivering Arthur gestured towards his dripping wet Christmas jumper. The knitted pudding was drooping, its bedraggled holly sprig clinging to the stained frosting.

“What? Oh! Yeah, okay.” With a quick muttered spell, Merlin waved his fingers.

Steam began to rise from both their clothes. It felt quite nice, a bit like standing under the hair dryer at the swimming pool. Within a few minutes, they were dry, and Arthur’s skin had taken on a cute rosy pink colour that highlighted the prominent arc of his cheekbones. He was so beautiful, with his blond hair fluffing up in wisps around his face, that it made Merlin’s ribs ache.

“Where are the others?” he said.

“They’ve gone inside, of course. Come on.” Arthur tugged at his arm.

 _Probably to pack_ , he thought, his mood dropping again.

“What’s the point?” Merlin shook his head, Hot tears pricked at his eyelids as he imagined all the bags amassing in the hallway while his favourite people frowned and hissed at one another. “They’re all having a miserable time. They hate each other. Christmas is ruined.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Arthur tugged him again. “Come inside and see.”

“But your dad still thinks I’m an idiot.”

Arthur didn’t deny it, which made Merlin’s heart sink even further. “My dad thinks most people are idiots, if that’s any comfort.”

“It isn’t.”

But Merlin allowed himself to be dragged in, anyway. He might as well give in. Because once Arthur had made his mind up to do something, it was impossible to stop him or steer him away from it. Instead, he would steam over everything in his path, like a bloody tractor, or… or… a steamroller or… or a tank. Yes. A tank. A posh, blond, gorgeous tank, with fabulous thighs instead of caterpillar tracks. And now Merlin was getting hysterical, but the point still stood.

The hallway turned out to be free of packed bags, but that didn’t lift Merlin’s mood at all. Presumably people were up in their rooms, waiting for a moment when they didn’t have to see each other to slink away. So convinced was he that there would be no-one inside that he followed Arthur into the living room. Where he stopped abruptly, thunderstruck, at the scene of domestic contentment that greeted him.

“Ah, there you are, dear boys!” said Hunith, waving them in. “We saved you some cheese!”

What an extraordinary sight! No-one had left. Instead, someone had lit a merry fire which crackled and hissed in the grate. Someone else had brought in all the cheese and biscuits; the remnants sat on the coffee table, together with some salad, a steaming pot of mulled wine, and a full pot of coffee. The whole assembly looking so appetising that Merlin realised suddenly that he was famished.

Leon was sitting at the card table chatting quietly to Lancelot while they swigged the wine and worked their way through a generous helping of Stilton and Merlin’s home-made biscuits. Leon’s face had taken on a pinkish tinge - no doubt the combination of wine and a roaring fire were working their magic on his normally pale complexion.

“You’re back!” Lancelot smiled and stood up. “Let me pour you some mulled wine. Morgana made it, it’s delicious.”

“Morgana _made_ it?” Arthur looked aghast. “Morgana’s only cooking utensil is her mobile phone with its extensive selection of take-away menus and private chefs!”

“Don’t look so shocked, little brother.” Morgana lifted her glass as she smirked at him. “I used a spell.”

“A _cooking_ spell?” If anything, Arthur’s jaw dropped even further.

“Don’t be silly. It’s a tasting spell. The mulled wine tastes however you want it to.”

“Wow!” Merlin had heard of potions like that, but the trouble with learning all your magic from a pharmacist is that the typical brewing process is designed more for its therapeutic effect than for its taste. In fact, Gaius had always insisted that the more disgusting the potion, the more effective it would be. “You must teach me that spell!”

“Yes, Morgana, please do!” said Arthur, with a little too much enthusiasm for Merlin’s liking.

“Come in and sit down, boys.” Upon her favourite armchair sat Merlin’s mother, clacking away with her knitting needles, and smiling at them above her reading glasses.

The sofas were both occupied. Gwaine sat on one with Aithusa on his lap and Percival by his side, playing some loud and presumably raunchy (judging by the giggles) word game with Morgana and Gwen. Even more surprising was the fact that Uther was lounging on the other, with his grand-daughter on his lap, as he read out loud to her in that mellifluous voice of his.

Prompted by a gentle shove from Arthur, Merlin went to sit next to him and let Uther’s dulcet tones wash over him for a moment or two. Arthur sat at his feet and helped himself to a large plate of cheeses and some grapes and poured out two mugs of coffee.

 _“...I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening,”_ read Uther.

Ah, thought Merlin, his heart melting. What could be more comforting than The Tale of Peter Rabbit? In Uther’s voice. That voice! It was, if anything, even better than Humphrey Cartright’s. As soothing as honey mixed with hot lemon and a dash of whiskey. They could market that voice to cure colds. It would be a damn site nicer than taking one of Gaius’s remedies, too.

 _“His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea,”_ Uther carried on. _“And she gave a dose of it to Peter! One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time. But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.”_

Merlin took a sip of his mulled wine. Freya had started to yawn, and her eyelids were drooping. He didn’t blame her. It had been that sort of a day. By the time Uther finished the story, she was fast asleep, with her grandfather’s arm curled protectively around her.

It was good stuff. He would have to get the spell off Morgana. He looked over to her and raised his glass.

“Chin, chin!” he said.

“Don’t drink it too quickly, Merlin,” she warned. “It’s quite potent.”

"No worries." He took another sip. It tasted pretty innocuous. “And thank you, s-Uther,” he added. “Freya needs to nap in the afternoons, especially when… you know. But it's difficult when everything's so exciting.”

“You’re welcome.” There was an air of surprised contentment to Uther that Merlin hadn’t seen before. “If I can’t tell a story to my grandchild, what kind of a grandfather would that make me?”

Grandfather? Merlin swallowed, overwhelmed. It was the first time Uther had publicly acknowledged Freya. He cast about for something else to say, but couldn’t think of anything, so he took a few more swigs of his mulled wine instead. That seemed to do the trick.

“S'nice, Morgs.” He glugged some more. “S’ jus’ like fruit joosh. I mean juice.” He hiccupped.

Arthur chuckled. “Merlin’s such a light weight. Any minute now he’ll start singing cheesy Christmas tunes.”

“Will not!” Merlin frowned. He’d lost his train of thought for a second, and the hiccups were annoying him, so he took another sip to try to get rid of them.

It really was very delicious. Just the right amount of honey. Which reminded him of something, what was it…? Oh, yes! Honey! Like Uther’s amazing voice.

“Hey, Uther. Anyone ever tell you that you sh… shound just like Humph… hic… Humphrey Car’right, off _The Shky’s the Limit_?”

Uther gaped. “You listen to Radio 4?”

“Of course.” Merlin shrugged. “Y’know, the writer, watsisname John thingy, he’s a bloody… hic... genie… I mean genius. Genius! And if I wasn’t married to Arthur, I’d want to marry his brain. Sorry Arthur! But your body’s still better than his.”

“How very reassuring,” drawled Arthur. “Can I interest you in some coffee, Merlin?”

“D’rather have some more of this, thanks, clotpole,” said Merlin, lifting his glass for a refill. But inexplicably, the jug, which Merlin could have sworn had been full up ten minutes earlier, seemed to have emptied itself. So he had to have coffee instead.

It was miraculous, really, how the afternoon seemed to perk up after that. They devoured all the cheese and then Aithusa brought them some nuts out of the cellar, and even the sprouts were edible, if not enormously popular. And later, after they’d eaten all the chocolates from around the tree, Uther entertained them with stories of his army days. Arthur and Morgana seemed to be having a bit of an eye-rolling competition during the stories, which only spoilt them a little bit, because Uther’s was treating them all to that glorious voice, and Merlin didn’t care what the words were, as long as he could listen.

Every so often, they would return to the topic of voice radio. Who would have thought that after all these years of Merlin trying to impress Uther with his erudition and abilities, they would have found this one simple thing to bring them together? And when Merlin started to imitate Alfred’s mangled Christmas carol from the Christmas episode of _The Sky’s the Limit_ , Uther first went off into peals of laughter, and then _joined in_!

“Merlin! I had no idea you had such talent for recall!” Uther chortled, after they’d finished singing. “Of course, I should have guessed that my son-in-law was a man of excellent taste, even if he does insist on a vegetarian Christmas. After all, he did marry my son!”

Incredulous, Merlin huffed out a chuckle in reply. Double-wow. An acknowledgment of both Freya and Merlin in the space of one afternoon? Was Uther thawing towards him, at last?

For a brief moment, he wondered if something in Morgana’s brew could have made everyone so jolly, but then he dismissed the thought. If such a spell existed, he would have learned of it by now.

No, it had been Arthur’s influence that stopped all the squabbling. He was sure of it, for several reasons, not least of which was the fact that bullying everyone into being nice to each other was exactly the sort of thing that the pompous old bossyboots would do. Plus, there was the fact that Arthur was the one person he knew who could pull such a thing off. Arthur’s self-importance and determination added up together to make an unstoppable force. And then there was his charm. Arthur was blessed with abundant amounts of it. No-one could resist him when he was in full-on charm mode. Not even Merlin, although if asked, he would proclaim that he was immune. But they both knew that was a lie.

On top of all these reasons, Arthur was now lounging around on the rug, wearing that ridiculous Christmas jumper and grinning up at him with the sort of smug certainty that Merlin had come to associate with Arthur when he’d pulled off a particularly difficult business deal.

Yes, that self-satisfied smirk definitely clinched it. It must have been Arthur’s brand of magic, not Morgana’s, that had united the warring factions of their friends and families and brought them together for a harmonious afternoon.

“What?” said Arthur.

“I didn’t say anything.” Merlin felt a soft smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“But you’re staring.”

“Well, I can’t help staring, when you look up at me like that.”

“Like what _, Mer_ lin?”

“Like the cat that got the cream.” Merlin narrowed his eyes. “What are you up to?

“Interesting analogy.” Arthur grinned, teeth gleaming. “But I think, in this context, I think I’m more like the dragon that got the Christmas pudding, don’t you?”

With which, he pulled at the knitted Christmas pudding that protruded from the front of his jumper, revealing a zipper. And when he unzipped the zipper, out popped a perfect Marks and Spencer vegetarian Christmas pudding, still in the shop wrapper.

“Anyone fancy some pud?”

The assembled company cheered - especially Gwaine. “Well done, Princess!” he crowed while Leon bustled off into the kitchen to do the honours with the cooking. 

“You genius! I knew there was a reason why I married you!” Merlin’s eyes felt suddenly hot, not to mention his cheeks. It must have been something to do with the mulled wine spices.

He looked down at his husband now, at the way that the soft glow of the fire made Arthur’s hair fan out around his head like a golden halo. The sudden deep well of love that sprang up in his heart made him want to weep. So, he smiled instead, and swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“Merry Christmas, clotpole,” he said, misty-eyed. “And thank you.”

Arthur blinked. “Merry Christmas, bumpkin,” he replied.

Merlin wasn’t even surprised when Aithusa suddenly appeared, clutching a large sprig of mistletoe which she held above their heads.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss,” chanted the assembled group. Gwaine wolf-whistled.

Well, what could he do? His guests had spoken. Needing no further telling, Merlin dipped forward to capture Arthur’s rosy lips in a chaste kiss. However, amid the cheering that followed, one small, high voice of dissent stood out.

“Ugh!” said Freya. “Disgusting.” She paused before adding, “Can I keep one of Aithusa’s babies?”

It was Arthur who broke the kiss, spluttering, while everyone else laughed.

“Definitely not,” he said, although there was a catch to his voice that Merlin knew meant he was trying not to laugh. “Dragons are not pets, Sweet Pea. Now, go back to sleep.”

She pouted, but then her expression brightened again as she settled back down on the sofa.

“That’s all right.” She lifted an imperious chin. “I’ll settle for a rabbit.”

 

****

END

****

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I'm not getting paid for this work.


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